With minds inclined to higher ground and rucksacks laden down/Hikers trudged through misty groves towards the mountain’s crown/By pitching camp near shallow tarns before the sun was spent/Spare time remained to get a sense of whither trails went.

For days they tramped through scented woods to rest by cool cascades/Probing for concealed lakes and undiscovered glades/Seekers of the wilderness estranged from city lights/Beguiled by secluded haunts on lonely mountain heights.

For those who’d known the anguish midst the fetid fields of France/Friendships forged by mountain life meant newfound confidants/Together with their hands was hewn a sylvan brotherhood/Who came to know the forest moods in ways no others could.

When the Thirties bred depression instead of work that paid/Thoughts swiftly soared to Hollyburn’s enchanting esplanade/Its trails aimed at simple truths atop this summit’s rise/Where those who stayed built cabins on a patch of paradise.

In the bush they knuckled down renewed by honest toil/As for the creed of caution, most professed to being loyal/But woodsmen reckoned certain rules existed to be flouted/And common sense was only good if tried by those who doubted.

Doubtless words were uttered when someone barked a shin/Or come dismal days of pelting rain when mortals couldn’t win/But, when latent tempers flared into comic woodland farce/The guy who groused about his pals was chided as an arse.

Building cabins called for backbone as the obstacle was height/While its craft entailed joining logs to make them seat just right/Yet, despite the grief, fulfillment showed on every grimy face/Since times were tough, men felt glad to be in such a place.

Each dewy morn, a rousing fire; fried bacon in a pan/The whiff of camping under canvas; boiled coffee in a can/Living meagrely upon the Ridge, Spartan though it seemed/Meant those who met the challenge shaped the form of what they’d dreamed.

As winter snow banks ceded ground, ’twas time to hit the trail/In summertime’s ascendency when lads were keen and hale/To sheltered lakes and silent realms strode the self-possessed/Striking off through scattered blooms to the mountain’s aery crest.

While feasting eyes on serried sights upon this barren nub/They hunkered down, and thus at ease, partook of simple grub/From head-springs to meadowlands the venturesome did roam/Over roots and rocks around the Ridge ‘til eventide and home.

If a fellow felt too punky to seek a mountain lake/He’d stretch out on his sleeping bag knowing things were jake/Thus, to laze about or ramble out in summer’s golden time/Induced a state that verged upon the blissfully sublime.

When gathered to encampments, they formed a human garth/Contemplating firebrands within a cobbled hearth/Through overhanging evergreens obscured by dark of night/Wood-smoke coiled skywards, drifting slowly out of sight.

Here dwelt vagrant gods of solitude, served by rule of thumb/It truly was a skookum time when all they staked seemed plumb/Their deeds confided memories, so when twilight days took hold/Wistful tales of the past could be summoned and retold.

They weren’t just bearded characters poor-bound in the wood/But honest folk in changing times coping best they could/Companions of the timberland and pithy raconteurs/Entranced by Nature’s gilded charms ‘neath noble conifers.

This footloose breed whose simple quest was a cabin all their own/Later thought of their achievements as a firm foundation stone/Hopeful that the winds of change would gust but ne’er prevail/So their legacy might be preserved by those who’d come along the trail.